


Latibule

by aspermoth



Category: Monsters University (2013)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bullying, Fluff, Gen, Identity Issues, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:14:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A latibule is a hiding place. A place of safety and comfort. And for three little monsters, what could be a better latibule than a closet?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latibule

The closet in Randy's bedroom was his favourite place. When he was little, he found he could squeeze in between the bottom shelf and the floor, curl up into a ball, and cry until he felt better again. Sometimes it didn't take very long. Other times, he'd spend hours in his little safe space, arms wrapped around his chest, tail curled up to his nose, sobbing until his head ached.

How long he spent there depended on the kids in his first grade class. Ever since they found out that Randy's skin colour changed in response to physical shock, they'd taken to shoving him into walls with funny patterns and hitting him with pieces of card with drawings on them – stripes, hearts, smiley faces, anything that made him look silly – so his skin would change without him wanting it to and they'd point and laugh.

It hurt.

By the time Randy reached eighth grade, he worked out how to blend into his surroundings so well that he turned invisible. Nobody could hunt him down, push him into walls, slap him with patterns. He was safe. He didn't need the closet any more.

He got glasses in tenth grade. He couldn't hide any more. The bullies found him wherever he went. And when he tried to crawl back into his closet to cry his bruises better, he found that he couldn't fit between the bottom shelf and the floor any more.

He'd lost his place of comfort.

He'd lost his latibule.

*

James P. Sullivan knew that he was James P. Sullivan from a very early age. He was never just James, or Jimmy. He was a Sullivan. He was Sulley. He had Expectations, the kind that came with a capital letter and the kind of anxiety that made him feel cold and shivery and a little bit sick before he even knew what Expectations were.

But there was one place where there were no Expectations, nobody telling him that he had a great future, nobody telling him he'd be a big strong scarer just like his daddy. And that was in his bedroom closet. There wasn't a lot of space in there, even when he was small, but if he wedged himself in and wrapped his arms around his knees, he could just fit.

He wasn't James P. Sullivan when he was curled up in the closet. He was just plain James.

Except... as he got older, he got bigger, and his Expectations got heavier. He couldn't fit in the space in the closet, and when he tried, he felt a wave of panic rising up inside his chest because here, he was just James, and who was James? There was no James. Just James P. Sullivan, Sulley, heir to the Sullivan family, who was going to graduate from Monsters University with honours and be a world-class scarer because he was big and scary and loud and a Sullivan.

It wasn't safe to be alone any more.

He'd lost his latibule.

*

There was a nightlight on in the bedroom – Mike could see its golden glow through the crack under the closet door – but there wasn't a sound to be heard. The child was fast asleep. Unmoving. The perfect target.

He twisted the door handle slowly, ever so slowly, hardly daring to breathe, expecting it to creak at any moment, but it was silent. The door swung perfectly smooth on its hinges. He scurried into the room and pushed the door closed. It shut with an audible clunk, but Mike wasn't there any more. He was under the bed, unseen by human eyes, but the child would be awake now. Staring at the closet door. Nervous.

Mike ran his nails across the underside of the bed and darted out behind a dressing gown instead. The child would be looking under the bed now, hung over the edge, nerves on edge. Perfectly prepared. He waited. Counted under his breath.

Now.

He approached the bed on tiptoes, breathing deeply but silently. He crouched down. He rose over the edge of the bed, took a last deep breath.

He roared.

Little Mikey stared back at him, utterly unimpressed. But then he was a bear. Mike couldn't expect too much from him.

He'd been doing this every day for three years, ever since the Monsters Inc. field trip in second grade. Hiding in his own closet, pretending to be a scarer, practising so he could prove everybody wrong. Hiding in his closet.

He had his latibule.


End file.
